


no flowers, no flashbulbs

by superoxide



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: First Time, Hand Jobs, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:10:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23909545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superoxide/pseuds/superoxide
Summary: Sebastian frowns, without thinking. They’d both ridiculed the idea of some kind of staged paparazzi friendliness when it had come up. He wonders what has turned Charles around on the idea so suddenly.(Charles has a plan to improve their image; Sebastian is less convinced.)
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Sebastian Vettel
Comments: 57
Kudos: 146





	no flowers, no flashbulbs

**Author's Note:**

> Long time reader... first time poster... what better time to give it a try than quarantine??  
This based off of that classic part in drive to survive season 2 of course. :)

“You know,” comes Charles’ voice from behind, “it wouldn’t hurt for us to, ah, go out of the way a little. Right?”

“Hm?” says Sebastian, looking up from his phone. Charles is buttoning a coat over his team clothes, clearly about to run off somewhere, another meeting, probably. 

“Like how Silvia said, about the Gazetta article,” says Charles.

Of course Sebastian knows what he’s talking about. The Gazetta article saying they hate each other, and also worth mentioning is the Tuttosport article saying they hate each other, and who could forget the Sky Italy article saying they hate each other.

“Go out of the way — as in, make it very obvious that we get along?” Sebastian says. 

“Sure,” Charles says, voice very light. “Just to make their jobs easier, no?” He tilts his head back to the briefing room. “All we would need to do is get photographed together a few times.”

Sebastian frowns, without thinking. They’d both ridiculed the idea of some kind of staged paparazzi friendliness when it had come up. He wonders what has turned Charles around on the idea so suddenly. Perhaps it is Charles’ image-consciousness.

“Photographed together,” Sebastian repeats. His brain feels sluggish, struggling to catch up. “I — okay, alright. You mean, what, uh, candidly?”

“Yes, I thought so. Maybe not in team clothes and so on — you know, just normally?” Charles says. “Like we are, you know, just hanging out, eh?” 

Sebastian draws his lips together, thinks for a moment. On the one hand, it seems like a very transparent idea; nobody will believe anything if they keep having these ridiculous dramas on the team radio during races. It could look too deliberate, too convenient, and _ then _ the idea will start up that Ferrari is forcing them to play nice, maybe paying them off.

Sebastian laughs, a little, shaking his head. “I’m a little tired of hearing about all of this, between you and me, honestly. If this makes all the —” he waves his hand through the air vaguely, “— _ noise _go away, sure.”

“Great!” says Charles, bright, as he starts on his way out of the team facilities. “I think it will be good. I’ll text you, then?”

“Be my guest,” says Sebastian, and gives him a little wave. 

The funny thing is that Sebastian actually doesn’t hate Charles — not at all. People around him have convinced themselves that he does, and importantly, that he should. They’ve done all the work of justifying it for him, and all he has to do is have some kind of racing mishap that affects Charles in any way, or say something about Charles with even the slightest inflection, and the media is instantly running away with the idea they despise one another. 

What’s the point? Really, truly, what is the point? Hate and resentment waste a lot of energy. 

It is true that they’re undermining one another, though. It doesn’t take a genius to notice. But it is certainly not intentional, not on Sebastian’s part. It feels more like they are trying to cram two people into a space that is too small for them. There’s no way to fit the two of them together, into Ferrari. No way to fit without kneeing one another in the ribs. Irreconcilable differences. Not quite sabotage, just — getting in one another’s way. Neither of them are interested in playing second fiddle, so neither of them will play at all. It’s a shame, really. Charles is a fine young driver who’s sure to have a long and brilliant career et cetera, but Sebastian just isn’t that interested in furthering Charles’ career. 

* * *

_ Hey u busy now ? _comes a text from Charles, around three o’clock on an off-day.

Sebastian is not doing anything, really, just reading a book that he’d started on a plane months ago and never gotten the chance to pick back up. Briefly, Sebastian is relieved that Charles actually has his phone number. The text history between them is amusingly empty, apart from once or twice exchanging flight details.

_ No, not busy_, Sebastian replies. _ Am I meeting you somewhere? _

_ Yes my treat ! _ Charles replies, very quickly, then adds the address of a coffee shop. Then, he sends two smiley faces and an emoji of a man running. The cafe is a walking distance from the hotel they’re both staying at in Austin, so Sebastian doesn’t have to go through the fuss of getting a car. It’s clear and crisp outside, a nice walk, but there’s a wind that makes him pull his coat on a little tighter. 

The cafe is fairly busy, for a Wednesday afternoon. What Charles hopes to accomplish trying this out at a random coffee shop in Austin, Sebastian has no idea; the chances of there being paparazzi there are astonishingly slim. Unless Charles has told someone to turn up? Sebastian considers it, then concludes that Charles probably wouldn’t have thought to do that. He waits for Charles, near the entrance but not too near, so he doesn’t get in anyone’s way. 

Nice to get out, anyway, regardless of the motivation. He hasn’t done much of consequence today, apart from a phone meeting with UPS regarding some filming they’d like him to do, and a session with his trainer. That’s the benefit to flying out to race locations so early; a little bit of what could almost constitute downtime. 

“Hello, hello,” comes a voice, “sorry, have you been waiting long?” and it’s Charles, looking a little harried, cheeks pink from the cold. That’s the first thing he notices; the second is the wall of cologne.

“No,” says Sebastian, “not at all.” 

“I was caught up,” Charles says by way of an explanation. “On my way out from my meeting I get a phone call from Binotto, and you know how he likes to talk.”

“It’s really no problem,” Sebastian says. 

Sebastian doesn’t know if he finds the cologne endearing or not. It’s certainly distracting. It’s strong, the kind of strong that makes your nostrils pinch a little. He’s not a fan of strong scents on anyone, male or female; particularly that astringent sharp-floral smell reminds him too much of being in sweaty, crowded clubs with too much money to spend, those massive bottles of Grey Goose, and having drinks spilled on him. Being too close to people, trying too hard, saying outrageous things he doesn’t mean. 

In any case, this plan of Charles’ is already working. Something about it is, anyway — people are already looking at Charles, Sebastian can tell. People are always looking at Charles, but now Sebastian is noticing it. Maybe because he is smartly dressed in a well-fitted coat and likely very expensive shoes, looking every bit the young millionaire he is.

“Shall we go in, then? Fucking cold,” Charles says, with a laugh. 

The cafe is warm inside. Houseplants everywhere and the menu is handwritten on a large chalkboard. There is only a short line to the counter.

“What are you having?” Charles asks, taking out his wallet, a sleek leather thing that looks hardly used.

“You don’t have to pay for me,” says Sebastian, hand around his own wallet in his pocket.

“Sorry?” Charles tilts his head closer to Sebastian. “Didn’t hear you.”

“Uh, a latte,” says Sebastian, “would be great. Thanks.” 

“Sure,” says Charles, thumbing out a credit card. Excessive for two coffees. Not a cash person? Charles orders two lattes and takes the receipt, folding and creasing it with his thumbnail. They stand off to the side of the counter, in front of the cabinet food, names and prices written in semi-smudged paint marker. 

“Have you eaten already?” Charles asks.

“At the hotel, yeah.” Sebastian lets his voice trail off, noncommittal, but remembers they are supposed to be small-talking. “You?” 

“Ah, no time. My meeting ran a little long,” he shrugs, _ what can you do_, “and then I’ve texted you and here we are.” 

“In a hurry?”

“A little,” Charles says. “I have a meeting with the team soon, four thirty, and I am busy tomorrow, so I thought I’d better see you now.” He runs his thumbnail along the crease of the receipt. “Otherwise we might not have time for a while, with the race and everything, no?”

“I see.” Sebastian tries not to dwell on the fact Charles has a meeting with the team and he doesn’t. It is a little peculiar. Binotto likes to see them both in the same day, usually, one after another. “Very thoughtful of you.”

“I am trying my best,” Charles laughs, and at that moment, what must be their number is called because Charles collects their two to-go cups and thanks the barista, smiles at her. Sebastian wonders if she knows who he is, if she’ll tell her friends that she made Charles Leclerc coffee. Charles hands Sebastian his cup, then pinches a sachet of sugar from a raffia basket in front of the till. 

“Shall we sit outside?” Sebastian says, placid. “Nice day for it.”

It’s a very middle-aged man thing to say, but it _is _a nice day for it. Still fucking cold, as Charles so eloquently said, but there’s some spare winter sunshine, sweet enough to make you want to savour it. He and Charles sit at a small table close to the entrance to the cafe. The cafe is trendy enough on the inside but the illusion is shattered when you step outside, wide inhospitable American roads and a token little berm of brown grass. Charles fidgets with his sachet of sugar, tapping it against one open palm then tearing it with a pinch. 

“My trainer will kill me,” says Charles, popping the lid of his cup with his thumb. He pours in the sugar, then closes it shut. “He tells me not to have any sugar.”

“Really?” says Sebastian. “None? Surely one is fine.”

“Oh, I used to take two, at least, when I was younger.” Charles stirs his coffee with a swivel of his wrist. Sebastian always finds it kind of funny when Charles says that, _ when I was younger_. “I have a — how is it called? Sweet tooth. It drives him crazy.” 

“Why deprive yourself,” says Sebastian, sipping his coffee. “Life’s too short, isn’t it?”

“Well, I _ would _ like to still have all my teeth when I am your age,” says Charles, nonchalant, then looks up from his coffee with a tiny smirk. 

A laugh bubbles out of Sebastian, one he didn’t anticipate. 

“Take it from a senior citizen, then,” says Sebastian, “worry more about losing your hair. It’ll happen sooner than you think.”

“Oh _ no_.” Charles winces. “I did one of these Instagram filters that make you bald, and I was _not _ so happy with how it looked.” 

“Just get Ferrari to pay for hair implants,” Sebastian says. “Problem solved.”

“Hair implants! I see. This is what you’re doing, is it?” Charles smiles, dimple sneaking out.

“Ah, no, I’m a lost cause. But it’s not too late for you,” says Sebastian, running a thumb along the seam in the cardboard of his coffee cup.

Charles is smiling at Sebastian. It is often difficult to tell if Charles is actually smiling or fake smiling. He has such an open, sincere face that it’s hard to know if (or when) he is faking anything. The kind of face you just want to believe. 

“Do you think this will work?” says Sebastian. The question sounds quite dour, which wasn’t his intention.

Charles shrugs. “It’s better than nothing. It will make the team happy.” He pauses, takes a pensieve sip. “You know, I think — well, realistically, ah, teammates’ conflict, people like to read about it, don’t they? So there will probably always be people looking for it.”

“Doesn’t change the truth, I suppose,” Sebastian says. 

“Yes. Of course.” 

“I just thought that when this kind of idea came up in the meeting, we were both quite fast to sort of dismiss it,” Sebastian continues, “so I was wondering what changed your mind.”

Charles shrugs, again, a little defensively now. “I don’t know. I just thought — why not, you know?”

Why not, indeed. It is a reasonable answer. 

“I have to go,” says Charles, quite suddenly after a short lull, getting up with both hands on the table. “I’m already running a little late,” he adds, “so I’ll see you — whenever?”

Sebastian blinks, concealing how startled he is. This was Charles’ idea in the first place — surely he doesn’t think they were here for long enough? 

“Sure,” he says. “Thanks.”

“And thank you for meeting me.” Charles taps the table near Sebastian, perhaps in lieu of patting his shoulder or something too familiar. He walks off, but the smell of his cologne lingers a little, the bracing cold smell of seawater and something citrusy, lime maybe. Off to his secret team meeting.

Sebastian stays at the table, commingling with the coffee cup Charles left behind. It’d be interesting to see if this short excursion actually worked, to check some sort of social media outlet to see if anyone saw them, but Sebastian doesn’t really care to. In retrospect, it feels like an incredibly egotistical exercise, and he’s surprised he said yes in the first place. Delayed self-consciousness. He gets his phone out anyway, to have something to do with his hands. Sitting alone like this makes him a little self-conscious that he looks like he’s been stood up, but he doesn’t have anything to check. 

It’s a funny coincidence that Sebastian has nothing to do this afternoon. It makes him acutely aware of Charles rushing off. Britta keeps him fairly busy, more out of her own exactness than any kind of personal preference on his part. Often, his schedule has him only in a given city for a day or two, and she’s of the mind that it’s only smart to get as much done while you’re there as possible. She hates wasted time. So, if he is away from home, it’s rare he has an afternoon off like this. He’s lucky to have Britta, though, because he doesn’t have to spend this rare freedom worrying that there’s something he’s forgotten about. Maybe it will be good to have some practice doing nothing. He tilts his face to the sun. 

* * *

It is around an hour to FP2 at Interlagos, and Sebastian is on the phone to Hanna when Charles finds him, around the side of the team building. Sebastian doesn’t make any effort to wrap up his call — he only realises belatedly that Charles’ expectant milling around means that he wants to talk to Sebastian about something. He makes eye contact with Charles, when he realises, and gives him a raise of his eyebrows and a nod. 

“I’ll phone you later, love,” Sebastian says, “my young teammate is here to see me.” It is handy that Charles’ German is very poor; it’s easy to get away with talking about him surreptitiously. 

“Don’t say anything stupid,” Hanna says, very affectionately, before hanging up. 

“Am I interrupting you?” asks Charles.

“No, not at all,” says Sebastian, tucking his phone into his back pocket. “Is there something you needed?” 

“Well, I wanted to see if you are busy,” says Charles. His voice is light, a kind of affected friendliness that Sebastian usually only hears from Charles if they are filming an advertisement.

“Today?” Sebastian says. 

“I mean, as in,” Charles smiles, like Sebastian had intentionally said something funny, and makes an ambiguous hand gesture, “_ immediately_, like — is there anywhere you need to be right now?”

Sebastian briefly thinks. “Not as far as I’m aware.” 

“Coffee?” 

“Now?” Sebastian says, checks the time on his watch. They are going back out on track in a short while, and probably both ought to talk to the team strategists in the meantime. They are constantly abstractly busy during race weekends — there is always something to do, somewhere they need to be, someone that wants to hear from them. 

“Why not?” Charles says. “Half an hour. Twenty minutes.”

“You’re very serious about this.”

Charles shrugs, tetchily. “Yes or no?”

“Sure.” Sebastian checks his watch again. “I suppose it can’t hurt.”

There’s no point going away from the track for thirty minutes, so they walk to the in-team cafe. Charles is lucky that he hadn’t tried to pull Sebastian away earlier. FP1 had gone poorly, in Sebastian’s eyes — regardless of placing. The full wets ended up being a waste of time, and the balance in the car was still poor. He feels like he’s complained about the car’s balance a thousand times and nothing ever seems to actually be done about it, and he is losing his patience. He finished FP1 agitated, and he was in a bit of a foul mood before Hanna phoned him and he was able to have a whinge about it. 

“Same thing as before?” Charles asks, hand in his pocket. “Latte?”

“Oh, no,” Sebastian says. “I mean, yes, sure, but I’ll pay this time.”

“You don’t have to,” begins Charles, but Sebastian raises a hand.

“Of course I’ll pay. What will you have?”

“What you’re having.”

Sebastian wants to roll his eyes, but doesn’t. No need to be derisive — Charles is only trying to be friendly, isn’t he? He orders two coffees and picks up a sachet of sugar. 

“Let’s sit outside,” says Charles. “More visible, no?”

“Sure,” says Sebastian.

“Remember to smile like you like me,” Charles says, as they pass through the door.

Sebastian laughs. Charles’ wit has a way of sneaking up on him. They sit at the table closest to the railing, closest to the walkway, a vein of the paddock. The table is a little wet, but it doesn’t really matter. It smells damp outside. The rain threatening to return. 

“Did you see this?” says Charles, pulling up something on his phone and holding it out for Sebastian.

It takes Sebastian a second to realise what he’s looking at, but it’s an Instagram post from a journalist, a post of him and Charles. He recognises the name of the journalist, but can’t put a face to the name. It is a photo from America, from when they went for coffee, when they started this little performance. It’s a nice photo. It’s taken from afar and Sebastian is laughing, while Charles’ head is ducked, smiling conspiratorially. Sebastian can’t remember what he was laughing at, in retrospect, but they look good together. It’s easy enough to take a sponsorship photo of the both of you smiling, holding a product — this looks, thankfully, quite genuine. The subtitle is “BUILDING BRIDGES?”, which Sebastian supposes they can both feel quite smug about.

“That’s nice,” says Sebastian, impassively, handing Charles’ phone back to him. “Has Binotto seen it?”

“No, I didn’t want to make it too obvious that we planned it,” Charles says. “Good photo, though, no?” 

_ We? _ Sebastian thinks. "Yes, it's nice," he says.  
  


A waitress brings them their coffees, and Sebastian thanks her. Charles is rising to his feet before Sebastian remembers, and passes him the sugar that he picked up. Charles raises his eyebrows when he takes it.

“You’re trying to get me into trouble?” Charles says, smiling as he tears the packet.

“Of course,” says Sebastian, evenly. “I’m trying to make you fat so you’re slow.”

“Ah, I should have known!” Charles says. “Sabotage.”

Sebastian is warmed by that, by Charles joking with him. It’s nice to be in on something with Charles. Often Charles doesn’t really get his jokes, probably due to the intersection of wildly disparate senses of humour and differing proficiencies in English. He never really had that problem with Kimi — Kimi is spare with his words, but they were always on the same frequency, thinking the same way.

It’s not as if it’s an issue, though. It hardly matters at all. Sebastian just figures he became quite spoilt, getting along with Kimi so well. 

“You are feeling good about FP2?” says Charles, resting his chin in his hand. 

Sebastian shrugs. “We’ll see how it goes. I think we will both do well in qualifying, regardless. It could be either one of us for pole.”

“I hope it is me.” Charles smiles, cheekily. 

“I’ll make you work for it,” says Sebastian, mirroring his smile. “Don’t get too comfortable.” 

“Ah, you never make it easy for me, Seb.”

“Of course not.” Sebastian takes a sip of his coffee. “What kind of teammate would I be, if I did something like that?”

* * *

There is not actually a lot to do in Maranello. If you are not a fan of Ferrari, hopefully you’re interested in semi-provincial Italian architecture, because you will be doing a lot of walking. If you are Sebastian, however, and have essentially a layover until the next flight out, and you don’t want to leave your hotel room for fear of being asked fairly accusatory questions by strangers, hopefully you’re interested in becoming intimately familiar with the print of the curtains in the aforementioned hotel room. 

He is being petulant. There is a bright side, isn’t there? He finally has time to finish the book he’s reading. He can practice his Italian with daytime television to his heart’s content. Hanna does an impression of him being sulky on the phone that makes him laugh. He is eager to get back to her, back to Switzerland. This is around the time of year he really starts to get tired of being on planes and in hotel rooms, starts to itch to see his family again. 

It has been a long year, but the gap between Brazil and Abu Dhabi stretches out, particularly arduous. They have all long since known Lewis has won the drivers’ championship and Mercedes the constructors’; these final races are more out of principle than anything else. Beyond the championship, within the team, there are still no real consequences left — Sebastian isn’t going to be able to bridge that tiny gap between him and Charles in the standings. Charles has pried them firmly apart. The real interest in Abu Dhabi for Ferrari will be trying to get Charles third in the championship. Sebastian’s not even really fighting with Max anymore; that, too, is left for Charles. Sebastian finishing the last race in the points is a foregone conclusion, and nobody is going to wear themselves out patting him on the back. 

This part of the year is bitter, in any case. Admitting the futility of the final few races. Sebastian hates conceding to anything.

A sudden noise. Sebastian was dozing a little, and the noise jolts him awake. It’s only his phone ringing. It’s close by, on the bedside table in case Hanna phones.

“Hello?” Sebastian drags himself upright, wipes his face. 

“Would you have dinner with me?” says Charles, in lieu of a greeting.

A pause. “What?”

“Dinner,” says Charles, like it’s very obvious. “Tonight. At a restaurant. Do you want to? You’re still in Maranello, no? I’d like it if you could, but, of course, if you are busy —”

“Are you sure?” asks Sebastian. 

“What do you mean?”

“Is this really the time?” he says, carefully. “To be doing this?”

That morning, they had both met with Binotto at the factory. They’d conference called him, earlier in the week, about Brazil and the crash, but he still wanted to speak to them in person about it all. Of course they both assured him everything was fine — _ a very unfortunate incident_, Charles had said, _ but it is only racing, of course, nothing personal_. Charles naturally self-flagellated a fair amount, because that’s how he is, lambasted himself for making _ such a stupid mistake, _ apologised to the team, to Binotto, apologised profusely to Sebastian. Who, of course, apologised too, said a lot of things to the effect of “I wasn’t thinking,” and “it won’t happen again,”, which — well. Those are very big words. 

It was uncomfortable. The constant apologising, of course, because Sebastian never really knows how to accept apologies from Charles, who is so ready to criticise himself that it feels like a trap. Primarily, though, the theatrics of it all. It felt very trite and artificial to have to apologise in person, like two schoolboys sent to the principal, just so Binotto can check that they look sorry enough. Particularly given that neither of them were sorry in the first place. Sebastian wasn’t. Not about how he drove, not about the decisions he made. The anger is still fresh, and he will not lie to himself. A little lying to others, however, is necessary. Such is the way of team politics. 

Charles wasn’t sorry, either. It was obvious. Palpable anger on Charles is very unfamiliar — usually he is very well-behaved, quick to blame himself and laugh self-consciously after a mishap. More inclined to sulk after a bad race than to rage. He is good at telling people what they want to hear, and giving journalists bland soundbites. This was new. Here he was, glaring at Sebastian coldly when he wasn’t avoiding him altogether, jaw tight, and he really expected Sebastian to believe he was _ sorry_?

“The time? Of course it’s the time,” says Charles, after a pause. “We really need to look like we are friends right now, don’t we? And we’re in Maranello, there is no better place to do it.”

Sebastian wants to say no.

This is all so unbelievably tiresome. When he was younger, when he was the upstart kid outperforming his teammate, he never gave a fuck about how he looked. He never once felt like he had to pretend to like anyone for the sake of keeping up appearances. Actions speak louder than words, in any case, and no matter what he might’ve said, he made how he felt perfectly clear. And it never ended up mattering, anyway. He and Webber get along fine, now, don’t they — he’s on the fucking Christmas card list. 

Sebastian was the hot commodity then, though. He was the shiny new model Red Bull wanted to keep, their ticket to the World Championship, and old Webber ended up being spare parts. Maybe, Sebastian thinks, maybe Charles is doing him a fucking _ favour. _

“Where shall I meet you?” says Sebastian. 

* * *

Charles has opted not to take him to one of the dozens of restaurants plastered with Ferrari memorabilia — the address is actually not even in Maranello proper, where the taxi drops him off. It’s fairly tucked away, behind a fence and a tall well-manicured hedge, and opposite is a fairly nondescript carpark. Not quite as picturesque as the terraces of Maranello central. Busy, though; Sebastian can hear the hum of activity from inside, and the carpark is full. 

It looks like Charles is waiting for him by the entrance. He has his coat folded over his arm, and he is wearing a deep navy-blue button-up shirt. Not a crease on it. He is looking at his phone, and doesn’t see Sebastian arrive. Sebastian immediately feels a little underdressed, because he hadn’t planned to be going out, and is wearing the sweatshirt that Charles saw him in yesterday. To be fair, he always looks underdressed next to Charles.

“Evening,” Sebastian says, and Charles looks up, brightens.

“Hello, hello,” says Charles, tucking his phone in his pocket. “Good to see you. Shall we go in? I have already got a table.”

“You have?” says Sebastian, incredulous. On the phone it sounded spontaneous — Charles wasn’t even certain he was still in Italy at all, when he called, and it’s not like they were leaping into each other’s arms when they saw each other last, so he can’t have been sure Sebastian would’ve said yes, and he reserved a table anyway? 

“Of course,” Charles says. No further comments. “Come on.”

Sebastian follows him through the arched entryway to the restaurant. He can smell that same cologne on Charles again, the cologne he was wearing in Austin, and feels a bit strange for remembering it so distinctly. It smells different at night, clearer. Charles speaks to the hostess who flutters a bit after taking Charles’ coat. Charles is speaking quite a lot to the hostess, much too quickly for Sebastian’s Italian to keep up with, and she keeps laughing, a light tittering laugh; he must be flirting with her, Sebastian thinks. 

Sebastian focuses on other things. The restaurant is softly lit and quite full. A steady buzz of noise and clink of cutlery. It is very sleek on the inside, not a table-setting out of place. The walls are paneled white and empty. No paintings or anything. The room is a long curve that opens to a terrace, with tables surrounding a large rosemary bush beneath a steel pergola covered in climbing plants. Must be beautiful in the summertime. It is dark outside, and a chill runs through him — he wishes he’d brought his coat. 

“Ah, here we are,” Charles says, in English, so it must be to Sebastian. The hostess leaves two menus on the table and smiles at Sebastian before leaving them to take their seats.

“This is, uh, nice,” says Sebastian. He has almost no idea what to say. 

“It is, isn’t it? I hope you haven’t eaten,” says Charles, lightly, opening his menu. “I have read that the lamb here is very good.”

What the fuck is going on, thinks Sebastian. He is already tired of this. He allows himself to be immediately distracted by the menu, which is lengthy and elaborate. 

As he is considering his pasta selection, the idea comes to him that maybe Charles is actually fucking with him. Maybe Charles has deliberately cornered him in a crowded public place, and means to slowly drive him crazy with completely inane platitudes so he lashes out, says something horrible and out of character, ruins his reputation. Maybe Charles has tipped someone off — a local journalist — that they’re here, and the woman at the next table looking so interestedly at Charles is waiting for him to say something, to give it away.

He’d never really entertained the idea of Charles having the capacity to do something _ that _underhanded before, but, then again, he’d never seen him as angry as he was yesterday, so. It wouldn’t be a shock to find out Charles isn’t as predictable as Sebastian thought he was.

After a while, Charles asks, “Do you feel like wine?”

“Why not,” says Sebastian. Dozing a little again. 

“I’m starving,” says Charles. 

Sebastian wants to say something, some better small talk, but when he looks up at Charles the first thing he thinks to say is, “Are you not sleeping well?”

Charles perks an eyebrow, blinks. “Um.” 

“I — I mean,” Sebastian stumbles, “you look very tired.” 

Charles laughs, kind of hoarsely. He does look tired. He’s usually pale anyway, but he’s very dark under the eyes, and the deep colour of his shirt sets it off. “Yeah, well, it’s been a — a stressful time, no?” He swallows. 

Sebastian huffs a laugh. “Yes, you could say that.”

“That’s actually why I want to see you again,” says Charles. “Just because things — haven’t been so good.” 

Sebastian raises his eyebrows.

“I don’t really think we need to go into it so much,” says Charles, surprisingly firm, looking straight through Sebastian. “But I wanted to make sure we are alright.”

Just as Sebastian makes kind of a disparaging face — _alright?_ _Are you fucking kidding me_? — a waitress comes to their table and asks if they’re ready to order. Sebastian is actually perfectly capable of ordering dinner, but Charles takes over anyway, ordering what sounds like a thousand things in his lilting Italian. Sebastian doesn’t mind. He’s not hungry, in any case. 

“ — Sebastian? You’re having something?” comes Charles’ voice. 

“I — yes.” Sebastian looks at the menu and picks the first thing he sees. “The — mushroom tortelloni,” he says to the waitress, before remembering, “sorry, uh, _ tortelloni ai porcini_, _ per favore. _” 

“_ Grazie_,” Charles says, and smiles at the waitress as she takes their menus. Once she’s gone, he turns to Sebastian. “You’re not having much.”

“I’m not hungry,” says Sebastian, and he is surprised at how defensive he sounds. 

“Ah,” Charles says. “Anyway. I want to make sure you and I are actually fine.”

“Fine,” Sebastian repeats, doubtful. 

“What?” 

“Well, I just thought this was part of — you know, the game. The getting seen together thing.” He knows he shouldn’t say any more, but he does. “I don’t really see how much it matters, if you and I are _ fine_.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not that hard to understand,” says Sebastian, softly. “It just doesn’t matter that much, does it? In the scheme of things.”

“It matters to me,” Charles says. 

“Why?”

Charles shrugs one shoulder. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then hesitates. Then, “You make it sound like it is stupid that I want you to like me.” 

Sebastian doesn’t know what to say to that. 

He knows what he _ wants _ to say, what he’d say if he wasn’t worried about people hearing him say it. He’s very tired and still kind of angry, and he wants to say, oh, of course. Of course this is all it’s ever been about. Everyone has to love Charles, even if he fucks you over. Charles wants everyone to love him and so that he must have. Charles getting precisely what he wants and nothing else will do.

(Sebastian remembers Monza so, so clearly. It’s tar stuck in his brain. The comical mess of qualifying, and the spin, of course, and the fallout — another apology to Binotto — but above all, Charles’ win. A memorable win, a poetic one. Impossible to deny the beauty of it all. Two things, indelible in his mind: Charles refusing to tow him in qualifying so he could keep his pole, and Charles holding that trophy over the crowd, thousands and thousands in red, screaming, like one giant organ, one massive beating heart. Charles glowing, under all that praise, under the tears and champagne, everyone calling him a star, a champion, the future of Ferrari.)

“You shouldn’t worry about what I think of you,” Sebastian says, instead. “There’s not really any use.”

Charles fidgets with the white fabric of his placemat, rubs one finger along the stitching. “Well, I do.” 

The waitress, thankfully, arrives with two wine glasses and pours them both a glass of white wine. Sebastian thinks, depending on how this evening goes, he may need more than that. She tells them their meals will be coming shortly. 

At least they’re not arguing about the crash, Sebastian thinks, but this really isn’t that much better. The crash is _ there_, in any case. It’s practically sitting at the table. 

Sebastian manages to make small talk. Football and tennis and holiday plans and the weather and, inexplicably, real estate. They conspicuously avoid talking about racing, or the team, or the championship. It makes Sebastian feel like quite the poor conversationalist, because there’s nothing he can talk about as confidently and as ceaselessly as he can talk about racing. He could talk about racing with Kimi for hours and hours, never getting bored. Drivers live a myopic life, and there is not much room for anything else. Avoiding the topic now feels unnatural, and quite uncomfortable; more to the point, it is the only thing he and Charles really have in common. 

Their food comes. Sebastian finds he is not that interested in what he ordered, but it tastes nice enough. It provides an easy excuse for not speaking too much. Charles has ordered three separate things, pasta and two different salads, and eats thoughtlessly, pausing to take generous sips of wine. 

An appetite. Sebastian realises late that he is watching him, the curve of his neck to where his shirt is unbuttoned, the lazy curl of his hand around the belly of his wine glass. There is nothing else to look at. And — well, the colour of his shirt is very flattering on him. Sebastian is not too proud to think that. He wouldn’t be the first person in the world to think Charles is fairly easy on the eyes. It is a strange time to be so aware of it, but Charles doesn’t seem to notice how Sebastian is watching.

“Is it good?” Charles asks, pointing to Sebastian’s half-full dish with his fork.

“Yeah, it’s fine.” Sebastian fidgets, moving one forkful back and forth. He looks up at Charles, who is looking very intently at his plate. “You — do you want to try it?”

Charles nods. “If that’s okay.”

“Of course.” Sebastian pushes his plate forward with two fingers. “Be my guest.” He pauses, watching Charles eat. He looks at his watch.

“You are in a hurry?” says Charles, wiping his mouth.

“No, no,” says Sebastian. 

“I won’t keep you, then,” says Charles. 

“I’m not in a hurry.”

“It is getting late, anyway.”

Talking to Charles is sometimes like talking to a brick wall. “Alright.”

Charles is already calling over the waitress, smiling so brightly at her as he asks her for the bill. He says something else to her that makes her laugh, something that Sebastian can’t catch. He watches how Charles’ mouth moves around words, how easy it is for him to be charming. When Charles looks back at him, he looks away, palms his jeans for his wallet.

“I’ll pay,” says Charles. “I said it was my treat, didn’t I?”

“Charles, for God’s sake —” Sebastian starts, but Charles interrupts him.

“Let me pay, Seb,” he says, very intently. 

Sebastian doesn’t have the energy to argue. Charles is acting very strange, and Sebastian is not interested in engaging with it. “Fine.”

After he’s paid, Charles fidgets for his keys in his pocket as they leave the restaurant. “You’re staying in town?” he asks.

“Yeah,” says Sebastian. “I’m only leaving tomorrow afternoon.” 

“I can give you a lift back, if you like.”

“You brought a car?” 

“Borrowed it. From the team.” 

This has been increasingly premeditated. Sebastian is ready to say no, thank you, and call a taxi, but Charles is already shepherding him to the car, a Ferrari of course, a sleek silver chassis that glows under a street lamp. Sebastian would make some joke about it being unsubtle, but it’s not the only Ferrari here. Sebastian thinks briefly of the way Charles drained his glass of wine. An interesting time to test his trust in Charles’ driving skills. 

“Come on, Leclerc Taxi is here,” he says, opening the passenger door for Sebastian, who stifles a laugh.

It is nice on the inside, sleek and sculpted. None of these big ridiculous screens on the dashboard you sometimes see in newer sports cars. Smells very good. Of course the new-car smell, warm plastic, and faintly, hot asphalt. Sebastian runs his finger along the interior of the passenger door. The interior is all black, save for the stark yellow of the prancing horse in the centre of the steering wheel. The seats are low, slung back, to a degree that would irritate Sebastian if he was the driver. 

“Seb,” says Charles, once he has climbed inside and shut his door. His key is in the ignition. He taps his finger nervously on the flat base of the steering wheel. “I need to tell you something. Very important.”

“Yes?”

Sebastian’s head is down, checking the time on his phone, but he feels Charles watching him in his peripheral vision, waiting for him to look, so he turns to meet Charles’ eyes. Before Sebastian can say anything, Charles leans forward and kisses him.

It’s not even anything. It’s not even really a kiss, not in the strictest sense of the word, it’s just Charles’ mouth on his but there’s no real purpose to it, and Sebastian flinches but Charles doesn’t pull away. Briefly, it’s like the earth just falls out from beneath them, a sudden rush of inertia, and Sebastian wonders if he’s imagining it, if he and Charles are just looking at each other and he is wishing for something that isn’t there, bridging the gap in his mind.

But it’s there, it’s real, and when Charles pulls away he looks at Sebastian with wide, nervous eyes — he really does have nice eyes, Sebastian thinks, idiotically — and he tenses, shoulders drawing up.

“I,” Charles starts, drawing his hand to his mouth, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I just —”

“What the fuck are you doing?” asks Sebastian, softly, with no emphasis behind it, no real venom.

“I don’t know,” Charles replies, just above a whisper. “I thought I was sure.” 

Sebastian drops his phone, reaches out, and pulls Charles’ hand away from his face, his limbs heavy like he’s moving through water. Then, and this is pretty indefensible, he leans across to kiss Charles again. He is amazed to find that he wants to do it. He wants to kiss Charles. Very much — completely certain. It’s not something he can recall ever actively wanting, but now it’s being offered — he can’t possibly say no, he doesn’t even need to think about it. As if Charles has figured out something about him that he was never even aware of, and isn’t that funny. 

Once Sebastian kisses him, it’s like Charles finally wakes up — he is stiff for a second, maybe surprised, but softens completely — and is soon almost rising out of his seat to reciprocate. Charles is a greedy, affectionate kisser, and immediately fisting in his free hand in Sebastian’s sweatshirt.

“If anybody,” says Sebastian, when Charles pulls away for a breath, “fucking saw —”

“There’s nobody,” whispers Charles, furtive, prying into Sebastian’s space, “we’re around the back, Seb, please —”

Charles ducks in to kiss Sebastian again, but Sebastian tilts his head back, evading him. 

“Is this part of the game, too?” Sebastian says. His breath is coming fast. His hand is still curled around Charles’ wrist, and he’s found that he’s pressing his thumb to the delicate skin at the base of Charles’ hand. Sebastian imagines it, the pale skin of his wrist, his veins. If Charles wasn’t moving around so much, maybe he’d be able to feel his pulse. “Charles? Is this some — trick?”

“Tell me to stop, Seb,” Charles says, voice rough. “If you don’t want this, tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.” The words hang between them a moment. The space between them is much too far, for Sebastian’s liking, but it’d be too revealing, if he was the one to break and reach out. 

Sebastian hates it when Charles calls him _ Seb. _ How private it sounds when he says it.

“Please say something,” says Charles. Sebastian’s eyes drop to his mouth. The light is catching the poised curve of Charles’ lip in a way that is infuriating.

This is ridiculous, Sebastian thinks. It is wrong, for him to do this, and even if he wasn’t already fucking _ married _ it’d be a completely terrible idea anyway, wanting to sleep with his teammate, when his teammate is Charles and don’t you think things are difficult enough without complicating it any more? He’s not even going to begin to think of the potential consequences — maybe someone _ did _ see them, maybe this _ is _a trick and Charles is going to hold this over his head forever. Maybe he’ll tell Hanna. Maybe, and this is a truly terrifying prospect, maybe Sebastian will like it too much, and want it again, and then what? But he’s not thinking about it. He is, very deliberately, not thinking about it.

“Come back to my room,” says Sebastian, quietly, his grip tightening on Charles’ wrist. His stomach lurches as he says it, at the prospect of Charles in his bed. Jesus fucking Christ. “This is your chance to say no.” 

Charles looks dumbstruck for a second, then laughs, giddy. “Fuck, Seb,” he says, before surging forward to kiss him again.

Sebastian lets him do it. He opens his mouth for Charles’ tongue without much consideration. If it weren’t for the physical limitations of the car, Charles would be climbing right into his lap. It’s almost flattering, how much Charles seems to want him, so much he can’t control himself. The longer this goes on, though, the longer he has Charles kissing him like this, the more frustrated he gets. Primarily in the immediate physical sense — he is getting hard alarmingly fast, and the more Charles touches him, the more urgent it feels, and this environment is not conducive to dealing with it satisfyingly — but also this is already much later than Sebastian likes to be up. He is a man of habits, after all.

“Charles,” says Sebastian, mumbling when Charles pulls away to kiss his cheek, along his jaw. “Charles, how long exactly do you want to stay here?”

He can’t put a finger on why he wants Charles so acutely. He has been thinking about him a lot, lately. Not exactly in the most positive of lights — but maybe it’s just his brain getting confused, misdirecting such strong emotion.

“Sorry, sorry,” Charles says, into the skin of Sebastian’s neck, “I just, I really —”

“Come on. Drive us back, yes?” He gives Charles a token little push on the shoulder. He can feel Charles heaving for breath, and that he is kind of twitchy, shaking slightly. 

“Okay, yes,” stammers Charles, settling back into his seat. He rubs one hand down his face and tugs his shirt down. “Yes. Let’s — okay. Where — where are you staying?”

* * *

It’s so easy to slip back into Sebastian’s hotel room unnoticed that Sebastian is half convinced that Charles had planned this too, that he’d slipped the concierge some money to duck away just long enough for them to tuck nonchalantly past. When they walk into the hotel lobby, the sudden harsh light on Charles makes Sebastian very conscious of the incriminating flush all over him, staining his cheeks red, and how rumpled and unsteady he looks. Fortunately, he just looks drunk, which is an easy enough excuse for this, should anyone be unfortunate enough to see them slip into the lift. The lift which is, by the way, blessedly empty. Charles’ eyes practically burn a hole in the back of Sebastian’s head the whole way up. 

As they go, Sebastian scolds himself; if he’d been thinking, he would’ve told Charles his room number and they could’ve gone in separately, just to be safe. Though, of course, if he’d been _ thinking_, he wouldn’t be doing this at all — but they make it to his room without any trouble. Maybe if they hadn’t, Sebastian would’ve seen sense, clued into the fact that this was a ridiculous idea. It’s too easy to go along with it. Too easy to follow every impulse. The second they get in and Sebastian bolts the door, Charles loops his hand around Sebastian’s wrist and starts angling in to kiss him again. 

“Can you at least let me take off my fucking shoes,” says Sebastian, faux-irritated. 

Charles takes him very seriously, and snatches his hand back like he’s been burnt. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, folding his hands in front of him.

Sebastian’s stomach twists, as he sits on the edge of the bed and takes his shoes off. It is unbelievable Charles is managing to do his self-deprecating routine _ now, _ and it is even more unbelievable that it is still working on Sebastian, after everything. He flicks the bedside lamp on. It’s a small room, and that’s enough to bathe everything in a gentle light. 

Now that he’s — allowed to, he lets himself just look at Charles, watches him fidget anxiously with the hem of his shirt. His nice shirt, that he’d dressed up in specifically to take Sebastian to dinner. It’s one thing to be abstractly aware that Charles is attractive and another to have him here, wanting. Wanting Sebastian. A hot, unsteady feeling runs through him. Guilt, maybe. Or anticipation. “Come on, then, come here,” Sebastian says. 

Charles looks up from his hands. “You are sure?”

“Don’t be stupid.” Sebastian holds out his hand. He talks himself out of any doubt. He is good at narrowing his focus. He is full of wobbly confidence, almost like being very drunk for the first time, like he could get away with anything and nothing could possibly go wrong. 

There’s a second where Charles smiles like he can’t believe it. Then, his look changes — maybe it’s the light, casting strange shadows — to something else entirely, a look he’s seen on Charles before, a hungry, singular focus. He walks slowly, then quickly, doesn’t waste any time getting his legs up to kneel either side of Sebastian’s hips, one hand in Sebastian’s hair and the other on the back of his neck, and joining their mouths. Sebastian doesn’t really know what to do with his hands, so he rests them on the juts of Charles’ hips, playing lazily down to the tops of his thighs, the silky fabric of his trousers. 

It starts off fairly slow and inoffensive. Charles is suddenly quite serious about technique, very delicately drawing their lips together with just a hint of teeth. Almost shy. In the car he was a little more excitable, but now he seems to want to be polite. It’s sweet, but Sebastian gets bored of it quickly. He knows Charles can do better than this. Maybe he just needs a little encouragement? Sebastian considers his options but ends up deciding on cupping Charles’ dick through his pants. Might as well, right, and he doesn’t _ do _ anything, doesn’t even apply much pressure, just the purposeful warmth of his palm. Sebastian has never claimed to be subtle in his manoeuvres. It’s nothing, but Charles’ breath hitches anyway. His hands stumble. Sebastian’s thumb fits neatly into the divot where Charles’ thigh meets his pelvis. Luckily Charles is already a little hard, filling his palm.

“O-oh,” says Charles, pulling away for a second, when Sebastian applies a little pressure with the heel of his palm, “Seb —”

“Hm?” Sebastian doesn’t move his hand. 

“Nothing, nothing,” Charles mumbles, and the next time Sebastian kisses him, his mouth opens like a flower. 

Charles kisses him filthily now, greedy again. His hands are restless, like he can’t touch enough, though he keeps returning to cup Sebastian’s neck, thumb pressed to the hinge of his jaw. Sebastian experiments with closing his teeth — once, quickly — on the jut of Charles’ lower lip, and Charles responds with a buck of his hips against Sebastian’s hand. Sebastian bites again, smooths over the mark with his tongue. 

“Shit,” groans Charles, “oh, fuck,” and he pulls away to tug at the buttons of his shirt. His hands, Sebastian notices, are shaking. He gets all of his buttons undone but can’t seem to stand being away from Sebastian long enough to pull his shirt off, so it’s just open, now. 

Sebastian presses a kiss to the pale skin between Charles’ collarbones, because he can. Then, another, at the base of his neck, and another, below his jaw. 

“You n-need to —” stammers Charles, “I really, fuck, would you —” he gives up on his sentence and his hands bump into Sebastian’s when he unbuttons his pants and pulls down his fly. 

“What are you doing? Let me do that.” Sebastian bats Charles’ scrabbling hands out of the way, reaches to circle his hand around Charles’ cock. No time to waste. There is a spot of wetness at the tip. Sebastian presses his thumb to the head of Charles’ dick, inquisitive, and Charles makes a high, desperate sound. 

“Seb, come on, please,” Charles’ voice is thin, quiet, but his face is tucked in close to Sebastian’s ear. 

“Tell me what you want.” Sebastian rubs a tight circle on the head of Charles’ dick through his underwear. Distantly he knows that it must almost hurt, a little. Sebastian can feel the heat flooding off of Charles, can feel every exhalation. 

“_ Please _ just touch me,” says Charles, high and rushed.

He asked so nicely. Sebastian loops a finger around the waistband of Charles’ underwear and tugs it down just enough that he has room to get his hand on the hot skin of Charles’ cock. Charles doesn’t make a sound, then, but he draws in a harsh breath; his mouth is open against Sebastian’s neck, his hands are curled tight in the fabric of Sebastian’s sweatshirt. 

“Relax, Charles,” Sebastian says, almost exasperated. Charles is so tense and jumpy that it’s distracting. Too much background sensation. 

Charles draws his head up from where it was resting to look Sebastian in the eye. “You really have no idea,” breathes Charles, harshly, “do you?”

“No idea about what?” 

“How much I want this. I — I can’t _ relax_, not when you — Seb, just thinking of you doing this, you have _ no _idea,” Charles looks away, suddenly shy even though he literally has Sebastian’s spit drying on his mouth, “how much I think about this, and —”

Sebastian’s vision goes foggy. “This?”

“Anything,” says Charles, very seriously. “Everything, Seb —” 

“That’s enough,” says Sebastian. There’s a strange heavy feeling in his stomach that grows the longer Charles speaks. Charles’ cock is already quite wet — and isn’t _ that _just something — but Sebastian takes his hand off for a second to spit in his hand anyway, and when he starts to stroke, the feeling of such hot, slick skin in his hand is such a visceral sensation that for a second his mind just empties.

Charles lets out this long, relieved sigh. His head rolls back, exposing the pale skin of his neck, and his eyes flutter shut. He pulls the rest of his shirt off, baring the pale skin of his shoulders. Just one hand on him and he’s blissed out, luxuriating. It’s such a sweet sight that Sebastian speeds up his pace right away, adding a little drag of pressure with the side of his palm. An indulgent, open-mouthed noise falls out of Charles when Sebastian swipes his thumb over the head, smearing precome on his hand. Now that his eyes are shut, Sebastian can study his reactions, what makes him twitch and shudder, and what makes him tense all over. 

“Ask me, Seb, you ask me, and I’ll suck you, any time,” Charles’ voice comes, sudden, “I’m serious, anywhere, at — at a race, I don’t care. Anything you want. On the fucking — how is it called? Private plane, in the bathroom, you say, you send me a text, and I’ll do it, Seb —”  


“Shut up.” Sebastian’s voice is very hoarse. He twists his hand, squeezes a little too firm. It is too easy to imagine Charles dropping to his knees in front of him. 

“Don’t — _ ah _— don’t you want to know? What I think about?” Charles’ eyes open slightly. He looks at Sebastian with a sleepy, hazy look through his eyelashes, mouth a little parted. He is so, so easy to want. Then, he smiles gently. “Would you fuck me?”

Sebastian has to suppress a groan at that. He’s taking the bait, he knows he is, because despite his words he keeps up with full, indulgent strokes, harder and faster, exactly the way Charles wants it. He is hard himself, too, distractingly hard now, an actual painful throb in his ears. 

“I think about you,” Charles has to take a ragged inhale, “I think about you fucking me all the time, I think you’d be so good at it,” he runs a clammy hand down Sebastian’s forearm, joining his hand on his cock, “but you know, it wouldn’t — it wouldn’t even m-matter if you were bad, I wouldn’t care.”

“Shut up, Charles,” Sebastian says, under his breath. A silence, then, quietly, “I want to make you come.”

“Seb, oh my God,” Charles moans, “fucking, _please_, please —” he rolls his hips into their joined hands now, greedy, unashamed. 

The words pop into Sebastian’s mind unbidden — _ fucking spoilt. _ They are words he might’ve thought about Charles before, and it makes him think about just stopping, taking his hand off altogether, making him get himself off, or maybe not even letting him. Making him wait. He couldn’t, he doesn’t have the stomach for it, he is not cruel enough, but the _ thought_. Just the thought is like a rush of hot blood straight to his dick, and he has to shakily adjust himself with his free hand. He hasn’t touched himself, through this, and the tiniest little bit of pressure almost overwhelms him. 

“Fuck, fuck — Seb, oh, _ Seb_, I — ” Charles’ breaths start coming high and frenzied, and his eyes meet Sebastian’s for a second before shutting as his hips roll hard into Sebastian’s hand and his voice cracks on a sound like a whine.

Sebastian is gratified by the unflattering face Charles makes when he comes. Almost a grimace like he’s in pain, face drawn and tight, whole body tense as he goes blotchy and red all the way down his chest, what Sebastian can see of it anyway, and he lets out this wet needy groan that makes Sebastian want to twist a hand in his hair and pull. Once he’s over the peak and his body starts to unravel, Sebastian gives his cock one last pump. For the road.

“Ah, _ ah _— shit, hey, that hurts,” groans Charles, almost laughing a little, the muscles of his stomach contracting. He sways a little, and Sebastian expects him to fall back on the bed, but instead he slumps forwards, tucking himself into Sebastian’s shoulder. 

Sebastian uncurls his hand from Charles’ cock. Luckily, his own dick is so hard it feels like it’s going to fall off, so he has no time to think about the repercussions or dwell on the lazy, happy smile on Charles’ face. It’s a strange arrangement, to have Charles just relaxing boneless against him while he frantically gets his fly undone and his cock out between them, but the relief that dissolves through his body the second he touches himself makes him forget instantly.

It won’t take him long. He’s not in the habit of making himself wait — he is not patient enough — and in any case, he’s so hard he is shaking all over. The slickness of his hand, of Charles’ come, is almost too much sensation to bear. He wishes he’d at least thought to take his fucking clothes off, he’s suffocating a little bit with Charles against him too, the earthy smell of sweat so close, but it somehow compounds the sensation, adds to the illicit, urgent feeling of it.

Another thing somehow adding to it is the fact Sebastian can feel Charles just watching him. Watching his hand on his cock, specifically. He doesn’t offer to help, but he curls his hand around Sebastian’s. Charles’ hands, Sebastian notices, are bigger than his own, and he is not usually so voyeuristic but he can’t stop _ looking _ at the pair of them. 

“Would you come on my face?” Charles asks. Almost sleepily. 

“Oh — _ fuck_,” breathes Sebastian, as his blood rushes in his ears and he comes, spine curling over their hands. His head fills with static and it almost doesn’t feel good, too much sensation. When he sits back, he can catch his breath again, he feels like his whole body has been just — wrung out like a rag, clean and empty. 

He’s messed up his sweatshirt, too, he notices. Maybe he should just throw it out. What a waste.

Their hands are still joined. Charles raises his head, and brings Sebastian’s hand to his mouth, slowly, to swipe his tongue across the come on Sebastian’s palm. He looks at Sebastian, meets his eyes properly for a second, as if he’s asking if this is okay, if it’s too far. Sebastian responds by slipping his thumb in Charles’ mouth, because he can, and because it doesn’t matter. 

Sebastian watches Charles clean off their hands. It should be disgusting, but it isn’t. Instead, it is just — quiet, almost soothing. A no man’s land between them. Charles presses a kiss to Sebastian’s knuckles, to the centre of his wrist. When he’s done, he places Sebastian’s hand in his lap. He even goes so far as to tuck Sebastian’s dick back into his underwear and zip his pants back up. They probably both ought to shower, but Sebastian realises he is exhausted. 

“Kiss me,” Sebastian says. It is the only possible thing to say to the irresponsibly fond way Charles is looking at him. He couldn’t give less of a fuck where his mouth has been.

“Of course,” Charles says, before kissing him, so easy and sweet. There is no shyness left in Charles, but he is not wanting as much as before, either. A nice balance. A level of familiarity with Charles’ mouth that Sebastian certainly had never expected to have. “Seb, can I ask you something?”

“Yeah?”  
  


“Can I sleep here tonight?” Charles asks. He is very sincere. “I understand, if — if not.” 

Sebastian thinks about saying no, but he can’t do it. “Sure.” 

Luckily, they were coiled so tightly together they managed to keep the duvet fairly clean. Sebastian swings his legs off the bed — a little shaky — and pulls off his dirty sweatshirt, tosses it into the corner. He pulls on an old t-shirt he’d brought to wear if the nights were cold, some tourist thing from a ski resort, and tugs off his pants. Behind him, Charles excuses himself to the bathroom, and after he’s out Sebastian tucks in to have a piss, and he gives his teeth a cursory brush. Their elbows knock as they pass each other in the doorway. 

He looks at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t explicitly remember Charles doing anything that would leave a mark, but he checks all the same, cranes his head back to scan his neck. He needs a shave, but apart from that, there’s nothing incriminating, not yet, anyway. Just a splotchy flush that could be anything. He looks a little gaunt and tired, but he’s looked like that for a while. Nothing that would arouse suspicion, in any case. It shouldn’t be so easy to get away with this, Sebastian thinks. There has to be some kind of hitch. Otherwise — he doesn’t even want to think of what would happen otherwise. 

Sebastian walks back into the bedroom. Usually he likes to do some light stretching before he goes to sleep — he’s not getting any younger — but he is suddenly self-conscious of having Charles in the room, having Charles know about his personal rituals. He gets into bed, prying apart stiff hotel sheets. Charles has tossed his clothes in the corner and is scrolling idly on his phone in his underwear. He looks very relaxed, a tableau in the lamplight.

“We can talk about it tomorrow, if you like, Seb.” says Charles, softly. “Or not. Whatever you want.”

Sebastian grunts an agreement. He wonders if he should say goodnight. He is exhausted, and behind the exhaustion is a light, anticipatory anxiety; knowing that tomorrow, he will feel terrible. In the time it takes him to start worrying, he falls asleep.

When he wakes up the room is not dark, instead filled with a cool powdery-blue light. Shortly before dawn, at a guess. Far too early to be awake. Sebastian stirs, reaches forward to check the time on his phone. Almost six. Still time for another hour or two of sleep, if he’s lucky. He settles back down, and turns, to a back, a pale neck, a thatch of dark hair.

Charles. Of course. How had he forgotten he would be waking up next to Charles? 

“Seb?” comes a mumble. “You’re awake?”

“Barely,” Sebastian replies.

Charles rolls onto his back and lifts himself up on his elbows, rubs a hand through his hair and down his face. His hair is sticking up all over. He looks at Sebastian, expression indecipherable.

“I’m sorry,” he says, gently. 

Sebastian scoffs. “No, you aren’t.”

A little bit of light catches the curl of Charles’ smile. He lies back down, looks at Sebastian. “No. I suppose I am not.”

When Sebastian wakes up again, the morning light is flooding in, stark and unforgiving. It is late. Panic rinses through Sebastian — has he overslept? He looks around for his phone. Charles is gone. Charles was there, Sebastian remembers, and now he is gone, he left without waking Sebastian up. He left, thinks Sebastian, without saying goodbye. The only sign that he was ever there is the unmade bed. Sebastian finds his phone, and finds he has two missed calls. He draws himself up and waits to feel like himself again.

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not bully me for my one line of italian. i took french at school.  
(also if anyone cares, the title is from the distance by cake, THE most obvious seb vettel song in the world)


End file.
